


Maínomai

by DachOsmin



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, M/M, Pining, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28311621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: Patroclus knew three things as he died.First: If Achilles had loved Patroclus more than his own godsdamned pride, he’d have joined the battle and the Greeks would have won the day.Second: if Achilles had loved Patroclus more than his own godsdamned glory, they would never have joined the war in the first place. They might have lived out their days together in peace, far from the bloody plains of Ilium. And Patroclus would not have died in a foreign land, alone.Third: Death had stripped away the pain in his body. The pain in his soul remained.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 230
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Maínomai

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemonsharks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsharks/gifts).



_Sing muse, of the rage of Patroclus._

***

Patroclus died angry.

He had fought in a frenzy, his wits battle-warped and his arms red to the elbows with blood. The blood—it hung so thick a man could breathe it. And then there were the sounds: the air was wracked with the clashing of heroes, bronze ringing out against bronze as shields turned swords away or else broke beneath them. Swing, parry, stab—Patroclus had led the charge, pushing the Trojan forces back and back and back, until—

Hector’s spearshaft in his gut, Hector’s taunting in his ears, the bloody dust of Ilium beneath his knees as he staggered and fell into the mud, just another body in the wave of men that had broken against the walls of Troy.

Death’s hands were gentle as they dragged him under the earth, down into the dark.

***

Patroclus knew three things as he died.

First: If Achilles had loved Patroclus more than his own godsdamned pride, he’d have joined the battle and the Greeks would have won the day.

Second: if Achilles had loved Patroclus more than his own godsdamned glory, they would never have joined the war in the first place. They might have lived out their days together in peace, far from the bloody plains of Ilium. And Patroclus would not have died in a foreign land, alone.

Third: Death had stripped away the pain in his body. The pain in his soul remained.

***

At first, it was this heady mix of pain and anger that kept Patroclus from seeking out Achilles in the realm of the dead. Then it was the guilt that he had not looked earlier, and then the fear that he had waited too long, and then the sullen weight of habit. But finally, he could bear it no longer, and he set out to canvas the breadth of Elysium in search of the man that he had loved, the man that had caused his death.

Time ebbed strangely in Elysium, but at least a lifetime must have elapsed before he began his search, if not many ages longer than that. There was no chance that Achilles yet lived. Indeed, all Patroclus’ terror was focused on what would happen when he found Achilles: what he would say, what Achilles would say, what Achilles _wouldn’t_ say. The possibility that he might _not_ find Achilles simply didn’t occur to him.

But Achilles was nowhere to be found.

He looked everywhere in Elysium. From the tallest hills to the deepest valleys, he searched. He made his way through the crowds of shades that thronged in the stands of the arena, and wandered in the far corners of Elysium where few shades ventured, until at last he was right back where he had started, on the misty banks of the river Lethe, and all he had seen in all his searchings were the empty faces of strangers. He was not sure which would be worse: that Achilles was not there, or that he was, but Patroclus could no longer recognize him. Had the rest of the years Achilles spent walking the earth changed him so much that he no longer bore any resemblance to the man Patroclus had known? Or was it Patroclus himself that had changed?

Either way, Patroclus was alone.

***

He gave up his searchings; it was too painful to look, too painful to hope. He discarded outright the possibility that he might make friends or find peace with the other shades; they were all of them unlike him, too focused on the battles they had fought and the laurels they had won to be anything but tiresome.

(Achilles, his mind whispered, would have liked them. Achilles was _like_ them, that’s what had gotten Patroclus killed).

In want of anything better to do, Patroclus spent his days by the banks of the river Lethe, lost in his own mind. The halls of his memory were dangerous places: so many had been trod by Achilles. Even those few memories that Achilles had never touched were fraught, for Patroclus would invariably notice his absence and was then stricken with memories of him anew. It came to be that he would traipse through his memories like a soldier fearful of ambush, tensing at every little noise, fearing and yearning the moment his thoughts would once again turn to Achilles.

It was torture, of a kind.

But what else could he do?

***

Well. There was one thing. There was the river. Forgetfulness in a sip, oblivion in a mouthful.

One day the memories were particularly bad, and Patroclus could no longer resist: he lay down on his stomach at the river’s edge and caught a measure of the water in the palm of his hand. Before he could doubt himself, he brought the water to his lips and drank until his thirst was slaked.

He stood slowly, warily. He felt no different. Had it worked? Had he lost something? And if he had, was it something small, something he would never miss? Or something huge, some vital part of himself, something the loss of which would leave him an entirely different man? Would he ever know? Or would he spend the rest of eternity wondering, worrying at the edges of his memory like a child might worry at a loosened tooth?

Shivering, he sat back down, staring at the swirling eddies of the river and listening to its siren call.

***

The fates were kind, or else cruel. Sometime later—a day, a month, a year?—Patroclus drifted in the past, and came ashore in a memory from the height of a summer long past.

He lay on his back in an orchard, dappled light filtering through the apple trees to heat his skin. Next to him, a warm presence shifted in the grass, and then Achilles was leaning in to press their lips together, and—

And what?

They had kissed, and gone on to do a number of other enjoyable things besides, but the kiss…

Patroclus frowned. He remembered that they _had_ kissed, but he could not recall the kiss itself. Had Achilles’ lips been sweet with the juice of an apple, or salt-bitter? Had Achilles pressed his mouth hard against Patroclus in desperate want, or merely brushed their lips together in a gentle benediction? Was his skin soft or rough, dry or wet, cool or hot?

With mounting horror, Patroclus realized that the color had been leeched from the memory, and the taste and the feel of it too. What was left was a dry recollection, a description written on flaking parchment by some other man, a stranger.

It had been their first kiss.

Patroclus did not drink from the river again.

***

One day a stranger began appearing in his grove. His presence was odd, as Patroclus was well-used to solitude by then, but not unwelcome. It felt nice to speak to someone other than the shades in his memories, and talk of things other than his own bitter regrets.

The stranger reminded Patroclus of soldiers he had known once. The ones with royal or divine lineage vibrated with the knowledge of it: they wanted you to inquire. Patroclus indulged in the petty pleasure of not asking the stranger’s name.

Still, he helped the boy. It cost little enough to be kind, a lesson so many of the other heroes in Elysium had never learned in life, and remained ignorant of in death.

***

One day, the stranger appeared wearing Achilles' arm brace.

Upon noticing this, two things occurred to Patroclus in rapid succession.

First: Achilles was in the underworld somewhere.

Second: Achilles was giving this winsome youth gifts.

It hurt knowing Achilles was out there somewhere. He had achieved a delicate balance of grief with the Achilles of his memories; the notion of an Achilles-of-the-present ripped all his scabs away. The idea that Achilles existed, could be talked to, touched—if he yet had a heartbeat, it would have sped up at the thought. Silly, really. Patroclus had learned long ago that hope congealed into disappointment, and what a bitter hope this was.

As for the boy, Patroclus had never expected fidelity in life, and Achilles had never offered it. Still, to be replaced completely…

He raised an eyebrow and managed to speak with an emotionless affect he didn’t quite feel in truth. “He is your _erastes_ , then?”

The boy blushed redder than the dawn, and Patroclus was momentarily taken back by how alive he was. And how very young. Gods, had he been that young, once?

After quite a bit of stammering and blushing, the stranger explained that no, he was not Achilles’ _eromenos_ , merely his student.

The stranger went on to hint at a number of other things regarding Achilles’ current situation, which cleared some things up and muddled other things further. Yes, Achilles was dead. No, he was not in Elysium.

This struck Patroclus as patently ridiculous. Gods, the man had been a hero over heroes, he should’ve been in Elysium, he should’ve been _ruling_ the place. What in all hell had he done to be turned away?

Yes, Achilles and the stranger saw each other fairly often. No, Achilles couldn’t see Patroclus.

This was a bitter drink to swallow, not in the least because Patroclus didn’t quite believe it was the entire truth. The Achilles he had known had not believed in “couldn’t.” Patroclus rather suspected that that “couldn’t” in this case was really “wouldn’t”, and then chastised himself for his bitterness.

What did it matter if Achilles no longer wished to see him? He had spent how many lifetimes alone by the Lethe without Achilles; he could suffer more. Achilles had always done as he wished in life, to include his final betrayal by the walls of Ilium. Why should Achilles be any different now?

Patroclus resolved to content himself with the Achilles of his memories, and let this other-Achilles give arm bracers to whatever fair-faced youths he pleased.

But in the endless twilight of Elysium, he couldn’t help but turn over the things the stranger had said in his mind, picking at each little factoid like a wound, fiddling with them like talismans.

The stranger had told him that their ashes had been mingled together, his and Achilles. He tried not to think of this. It was rather pathetic to be jealous of one’s own ashes, after all.

***

The stranger, gods damn him, was not willing to leave Patroclus be. Patroclus did his best to dissuade him from speaking of Achilles, with little success. Perhaps, some traitorous part of his heart pointed out, because Patroclus didn’t truly wish to dissuade him.

Finally, one day the stranger opened his mouth and asked the question that Patroclus had been dreading.

“Do you have a message for him?”

Patroclus closed his eyes, and thought of dying. Of the bright sun above Troy, and the blood, and the broken spears.

Gods, but he had been so angry. He had burned so hot with his rage.

He could vindicate that rage now. He could rebuff Achilles and send him no message at all. He could tell Achilles he wanted nothing to do with him, he could tell Achilles he would never forgive him, not until the ending of the world. Let Achilles be the one betrayed and abandoned this time. Let him feel rage and pain as Patroclus had felt. Let him be left behind.

Death was so long, and so cold. It was no place for the heat of rage, for all it might have warmed him.

Hope, on the other hand, was painful, and dangerous, and often as not ended in tears. But for Achilles?

He opened his eyes to regard the stranger.

“Tell him to risk it all,” he said.

***

_Sing muse, but not of rage. Sing of two shades drifting towards each other by the banks of a calm river cast in twilight. Sing of a name uttered, a gasp, a name returned. Sing of two souls in one spot, lingering, but not in sorrow. Sing of peace._


End file.
